


End Credits

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, Horror, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-06
Updated: 2007-04-11
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8702713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean's been a fan of scary movies for as long as he can remember ... Hollywood's processed thrillers, scares, and screams are nothing compared to the horror of Dean's real life, as he desperately tries to save his brother's life and sanity, as well as his own.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

  
Author's notes: Author's Note: *points to list of warnings* Seriously, this is about as dark as it can get, so take those warnings seriously, please. Don't read this and expect to find love and happiness and rainbows.  


* * *

**_…m.a.e.r.c.s…_ **

 

 

Dean’s been a fan of scary movies for as long as he can remember. He has clear memories of staying up late in a flea-bag motel room, sitting next to the lump of blankets that was his three-year-old brother as he watched _The Thing_ on late-night cable television while his father was out hunting down a possessed college student. He remembers feeling the instinctual fear and gut-panic more clearly than he remembers his mother’s touch or his first day of school.

 

Watching that movie is as clear as the memory of his first kill (a banshee when he was ten); the feeling of blood on his hands is something that will never go away. Sticky and wet, cold and stuck between his fingers … Dean had stared at it for hours before his father had found him, curled in a little ball in the back of the truck, and made him wash up.

 

Whenever they had some spare time and cash growing up, which was never often enough for Dean, he would look up local movie theaters to see if something good was showing. Sometimes he could convince Sammy to come with him, sometimes he couldn’t and he would have to go alone. John never came, but Dean never asked; it didn’t seem right. Not after what happened to his mother.

 

By the time Dean was seventeen he stopped asking Sammy to come altogether; his younger brother never shared his lust for gory images and bloodshed, preferring to stay at home and read something or watch television, like he was some sort of geek or something. But, right around that time Dean discovered something that he liked almost as much as flesh-eating zombies and killer ghosts: sex. And luckily, he never had too much trouble finding some nameless girl to tag along with him, and by the time the movie was finished, half of his work had already been done for him; she was so scared that the pants just came right off. It was barely a challenge, but Dean had enough in his life that he had to work for already, so it was never a problem.

 

Dean was eighteen when he started to notice that Sammy ( _Sam_ , his younger brother would say, a scowl on his lips and a hint of loathing in his eyes) was changing; yeah, he noticed the physical changes that all guys have to go through: the deeper voice, the growth of body hair, the unexplainable and unpredictable erections … but what really caught Dean’s attention was the sort of _impression_ Sam gave off, like he was some kind of electric fence that would zap you if you ever got too close. 

 

And that was a huge problem for Dean. After all, it had been Dean’s responsibility for what seemed like forever to watch out for Sam, and the more his younger brother started to pull away from Dean and their father, the harder his job to look out for him became. And, beyond that, it was almost painful for Dean, watching Sam start to retreat into himself. Sam was more than just his little brother; he was his best friend and partner in crime, his shadow … he was the other half of _Sam’n’Dean_ (which was how _everyone_ \- relatives, friends, even their own father - said it, like it was one word or something). 

 

He started to ask Sam to come with him again, tried to play the _boy’s night out_ angle almost every night of the week, until he finally convinced his dork brother to go out with him. There wasn’t anything _really_ good out that week, so Dean was forced to settle with _Scream 2_ for a third time. 

 

About ten minutes in, Sam was glaring at the screen, muttering under his breath about how lame the whole thing was. Dean just ignored him and dug his hand deeper into the popcorn, searching for the M&M’s that he had dumped in there. Half-way through the movie, Sam was practically curled against his side, burying his head in Dean’s shoulder every time the killer came out behind the corner or the bushes, which Dean thought was one of the funniest things in the world; Sam had seen - and had _wasted_ \- things that were ten times scarier than some nut-job in a stupid mask. But he was still scared, still looking like he was about to piss himself out of fright.

 

By the end of the movie, Dean had nearly a lap-full of his little brother and was thinking of all the ways he could blackmail Sam for being such a wuss. He pretty much had Sam doing laundry for the rest of his life when the younger boy got a very strange look on his face, as though he was a deer caught in the headlights, his head pressed against Dean’s cheek as the credits rolled.

 

“Dude, what is it?” Dean asked, his voice still low despite the movie being over, the mostly-empty theater still dim, popcorn sticking to his shoe. “Do you need me to hold your hand or something, scaredy-Sammy?”

 

Sam just looked at him though, his eyes open wide and his breath hitching, sounding like … just like he was … Dean risked a look down to Sam’s threadbare jeans, and saw the obvious tent in the front. _Oh …_ yeah, Dean remembered those days _all_ too well. “Shut up, Dean,” Sam whispered, lowering his eyes and blushing madly.

 

But after watching Sam squirm for the entire movie, which by itself was too hilarious to be true, knowing that Sam was hard and probably couldn’t do anything about it was like the icing on the cake for Dean. He should’ve let it go, but he was eighteen and it was too easy. “I don’t know Sammy; maybe I shouldn’t have let you cuddle when you were scared. Gotta make a man out of you somehow.”

 

Sam’s eyes were on his again, and suddenly it wasn’t like he was staring at his fourteen-year-old brother but just another _guy,_ and shit, Dean had never really looked at another guy before and certainly not his _brother_ , because that was wrong, but that time Dean really did look and it was just like falling. Sam’s eyes were really dark and glittering madly in the theater, and there was no one left inside anymore, just the two of them, suddenly far too close for comfort, and Dean could feel Sam’s dick pressing against his lower stomach.

 

And the moment was over, just like that. Sam jerked away like he was on an invisible leash, almost tumbling out of the seat next to Dean and falling on the floor. And Dean tried to laugh, because watching his brother, who was more legs at that age than anything else, flounder about was really funny, but to be honest he had no idea what the hell that had just been, and it kind of freaked him out.

 

“Hey, let’s get outta here,” he said, not moving to help his brother get up, standing up stiffly and brushing traces of popcorn off of his jeans, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “I gotta get you back before dad gets home; he’ll be pissed if he found out I’d taken you somewhere without packin’ a weapon.”

 

Sam didn’t say anything; he just picked himself up and followed Dean out of the theater, and in the weeks following that episode his status went from being like electric fence to being like a god-damned electric _chair_. And Dean felt like he was sitting on death row for a crime that he hadn’t committed. _Yet._

 

 

**_…d.a.e.d…g.n.i.v.i.l…e.h.t…f.o…t.h.g.i.n…_ **

 

 

Sam’s skin was blotchy and sore; Dean had gotten the wallop of the year for filling his little brother’s bed with scratching powder (but to be fair, Sammy had started it when he had put bleach on Dean’s leather jacket), and as punishment, John was making him share his clean, non-scratchy bed with his very-angry younger brother.

 

However, Dean was still royally pissed about that jacket; he’d won it fair and square in a poker game on his twenty-first birthday. Sam always said it made him look like a wanna-be biker, which was probably why it was targeted for bleaching. But, that was all in the past; Dean’s present was a sullen Sam who was too sore to even wrap around blankets or wear anything more than a pair of faded boxers, glaring straight ahead at the television, not paying attention to Dean in the slightest as his older brother flipped idly through the channels, not watching anything for longer than three minutes.

 

He’d been through the channel list four times when he stumbled across the original _Night of the Living Dead_ (the black-and-white, 1968, vintage version) and Dean couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face even if he had wanted to. _Dude, zombies._ Sam, however, did not seem pleased, and he practically fled from the bed and flew into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and locking it (as though Dean couldn’t break the door down if he really wanted to get in there … sometimes Sammy really didn’t _think_ ) before Dean could even blink.

 

_What the fuck_ , Dean wondered, arching an eyebrow at his brother’s escape from the room, wondering if Sammy was so scared of zombies (because these weren’t even as good as the _real ones_ ; half of the problem fightin’ zombies came from smelling them) that he couldn’t even watch a crap movie about them. It only took a few moments for him to remember what happened the _last_ time he and his brother had watched a movie together, three years beforehand. In the time since then, Sam had retreated farther into his own little world, and Dean had stopped trying to yank him out of it for a long time. Especially in the past few months, Sam had been getting really secretive, getting and receiving strange packages all over the place, and as hard as Dean tried to get into them before Sam saw them, he couldn’t. 

 

“Sam, get out of the bathroom!” Dean yelled, trying to ignore the twist in his gut as he thought about what had happened that night at the theater. _Shit,_ it had been three years before, it hadn’t meant anything; it was just one of those things that can happen between brothers that is awkward as hell at the time but should be forgotten as quickly as possible. But trust Sam, who had brooding down to an art by seven, to hold on to something so _stupid_ for three years. “You can’t hide in there all night!” 

 

Dean sure as hell wasn’t going to go in there after him, but he knew that if he yelled long enough they would wake up John, their father would be in the room, and Sam would have to explain the problem. Dean knew that Sam would rather strangle himself than tell his father _anything_ , especially something so embarrassing, and John had the most amazing ability to get the truth out of his younger brother; Sam would get out of the bathroom.

 

Sure enough, two minutes later the bathroom door opened, and Sam was flushed all over; Dean couldn’t tell if it was because he was embarrassed or if the rashes had spread again. Dean just quirked an eyebrow as Sam stalked across the room, freakishly-long arms waving all over the place, watching him as he sat down gently on the bed, as far away from Dean as was humanly possible.

 

“I don’t want to watch this,” Sam said in a low, growling voice, staring ahead at the television so intensely that it seemed like he wanted to do nothing _more_ than watch the movie. “I don’t like scary movies.”

 

“Tough shit,” Dean replied, setting the remote down on the night table on his side of the bed, far away from Sam. “We’re watchin’ this.”

 

At first Sam didn’t say anything, but Dean knew more than anything else that the fight wasn’t over yet. Dean watched out of the corner of his eye as Sam’s eyebrows started to come together, as though he was thinking about something really hard, weighing options and guessing at his chances. Dean watched as Sam’s young muscles started to contract and tense, preparing to lunge. So when Sam finally threw himself over his brother in an attempt for the remote, Dean was more than ready; he used Sam’s momentum to flip him completely over, rolling the two of them so that they were in the center of the bed, Dean in between Sam’s thighs, pinning the thrashing boy down under him, his grin so wide it practically split his face in half.

 

The television screen was causing the amount of light in the room to flicker and change, getting lighter and darker quickly and variably, the light casting deep shadows on Sam’s face as he panted under his brother. Sam’s eyes were open wide again, and Dean felt himself staring at them again, just like he had before, all those years ago, watching the twinkle and glittering … he was turning into a fucking _romantic_ over his kid brother’s eyes for Christ’s sake … apparently Sam’s geekiness was catching.

 

“What I wanna know, Sammy,” Dean said, glaring down at his brother so fiercely that the typical _it’s Sam_ was stopped before Sam even opened his mouth. “Is what it is that freaks you out so bad about scary movies. After all the crap we’ve seen in our lives, after all the things we’ve hunted and killed, I can’t figure out how some stupid movie with fake blood and psycho killers can really bother you that much.”

 

“It’s not the movies,” Sam said slowly and quietly, almost a whisper, the words coming out so stuttered and pained almost like they were being dragged out of him without his consent. “The movies don’t scare me.”

 

“Then what is it, Sam?” Dean shifted just a bit, to get a better hold on his brother, who was almost taller than him (which was _so_ not cool, by the way) when he felt that familiar part of Sam pressing into his stomach, just like he had when he was eighteen. And Sam didn’t even have to _answer_ , because Dean suddenly figured it out.

 

“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” Dean asked in a shocked whisper, so surprised that his boring kid brother, the one who was so desperate to be _normal_ , got a woody thinking about people getting stabbed or turned into monsters. _Just like Dean_ … he knew that he couldn’t have gotten _all_ the good genes from his parents. “That’s what freaks you out? You can’t stand to watch scary movies ‘cause it makes you hard?”

 

“And because you’re here … _Jesus_ , Dean, you’re my _brother._ ” And the way Sam said it made it sound so wrong, but honestly, Dean could care less. So what if they were brothers? They were _guys_ , and more importantly, they were _Winchesters_. Rules that applied to everyone else didn’t work with them. 

 

“So what? Sam, how often do you think I’ve been hard with you in the room without even _caring_?”

 

“That’s different; you’re a slut.”

 

And Dean just _had_ to laugh, ‘cause yeah, he really was a slut (and he wasn’t going to apologize for it, either) but also because, at that moment, it wasn’t _him_ who was hard. Well, maybe he was a little hard, but Sam wasn’t the only one who thought that scary flicks were a total turn-on. Just _thinking_ about certain movies (and certain actresses) was enough to get Dean in the mood; having the visual almost guaranteed a little in-the-pants action.

 

“Sam,” Dean said, rolling off of his brother and laughing, planting a hand sharply against the twitching stomach muscles of his younger brother’s body, right on top of a particularly nasty-looking rash, “one of these days you are going to grow up to become a really repressed virgin. And I’m going to have to either hire a prostitute or disown you.”

 

“Shut up.” And with that, despite the rashes and his complaints that he couldn’t even touch any fabric, Sam crawled under the covers and pretended to go to sleep. But in the dim light of the room, Dean could see Sam’s back twitching under the blankets, could see his brother’s hand moving under the sheets, could see the beads of sweat forming on his neck. And even if he couldn’t see that, he could have heard his brother’s sharp intakes of breath and final gasp that meant he was finished. And yeah, maybe most brothers would be freaked out if they just watched their little brother jerk off in the bed that they were going to share that night, but Dean hardly batted an eye. He _was_ a Winchester, after all.

 

 

**_…g.n.i.r…e.h.t…_ **

 

 

“Man, I’ve totally seen this movie before,” Dean said suddenly, jolting Sam out of his half-daze on the other bed, a grin splitting his face as the idea fully formed in his head. “That _Ring_ movie or whatever; dude, the ghost is trapped _inside_ the videotape … if a person watches it, then they’re killed.”

 

“Yeah, I know; I saw that movie too.” Sam’s voice sounded like shit, tired and gravelly and sore, and Dean’s eyes instantly moved over to his brother’s bed, where Sam was sitting straight up as though he had burned himself on the pillow, his face pale save for the dark splashes under his eyes, making him look like a scarecrow. Suddenly Dean regretted having woken Sam up for something that they could’ve worked out later; Sam hardly ever slept, and he really shouldn’t have rousted him like that.

 

Dean had to push back at the guilt, stopping it with a few hard-edged thoughts ( _if he gets tired enough, he’ll sleep_ and _he’s gotta learn how to live again_ ) and a grim smile. He couldn’t afford to let Sam drag him down into his depressing whirlpool of emotions and all that other girly crap his brother was dealing with. Yeah, what happened to Sam’s girlfriend was bad, and yeah, they needed to find their dad and destroy whatever it was that killed her (and their mother), but it had been seven months already. Dean was starting to think that Sam was never going to get over his whole mental breakdown, and what was worse, he was starting to pull Dean down along with him.

 

He had no real proof of this, of course; Sam mostly kept to himself when he could, and he would rather hang out night after night in the motel room as opposed to - _God forbid_ \- socializing at the bars, and although Dean normally would have had no problem leaving Sam alone in the past, he _did_ have a problem with was leaving his two-steps-from-suicidal younger brother who had begun to develop very unsettling psychic abilities alone. And it was because of this that Dean had gone three weeks without sex.

 

No sex. Nothing; no touches, no kisses, no groping, barely anything more than a suggestive wink and a phone number that he knew that he wouldn’t call because that would mean leaving Sam (who was eating less than he slept now, complaining of headaches almost constantly, slowly becoming more and more a shadow of the quick-tempered kid he had always associated with his younger brother), which was something that he couldn’t do. He thought once or twice about inviting a girl to come back to the room with him, maybe locking Sam in the bathroom for a few hours, but he figured that with his luck Sam would suddenly develop x-ray vision and be able to see everything. Not that that thought bothered Dean very much, but he figured that it would probably be awkward for Sam.

 

“Sorry,” Dean said, getting off of the stiff wooden chair he had been sitting in and walking across the room, throwing his heavy bag on Sam’s bed, nearly on top of the younger man, rifling through it to check the number of rock salt rounds he had left. Ten … probably enough to toast a vengeful spirit of a boy whose murder was videotaped and was making a habit of killing everyone who watched the video two days later. “I figured you hadn’t, you know, because of your whole thing with scary movies and whatever.” Dean _knew_ that was probably the wrong thing to say, because not only was Sam cranky because he was _always_ cranky, but he had just woken up, which made it that much worse.

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sam asked, even though Dean was sure he already knew what his older brother was getting at. Dean couldn’t help but to talk about sex, even if it was with his dork little brother; it had been _three weeks_ , for god’s sake. And it was all Sam’s fault, besides that. 

 

“I’m just sayin’ … the last time you and me watched a scary movie, I figured out why you hate them so much, and I just assumed that you wouldn’t watch any if I wasn’t around. That is, unless-” and suddenly Dean got an idea, a really bad one, and he knew that he should’ve really stopped there and not said anything else, but it was too late and he already had the words on his lips before his brain could catch up and stop him, “you watched it with Jessica.”

 

The change that came over Sam’s face was instantaneous; the younger man went from tired and cranky to cold as ice in less than a second, his features hardening and his jaw clamping so tightly Dean was sure that he was going to just shatter most of his teeth. He said nothing, balling his hands into fists, his knuckles white. There were no tears in his eyes, not like there usually was when one of them mentioned his girlfriend’s name; instead they were filled with rage, directed solely at Dean.

 

Dean realized his mistake too late, of course, and did his best to fix the situation, backing away from Sam and trying to smooth things over with words. “Hey man, sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.” But he had meant for it to come out like that, and they both knew it.

 

“Don’t lie, Dean,” Sam said, his voice low and dead, more toneless than Dean had ever heard it before, and Dean suddenly thought that maybe he had finally done it, maybe he had finally pushed Sam over the edge, just like the little girl in that stupid fucking movie that had started this whole twisted conversation, and now Sam was just gonna fall. “Don’t tell me that you’re sorry when you’re not.”

 

“I am sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t have mentioned her. I should’ve just let you sleep.” _Fuck_ , Dean was feeling tired himself, although there was a fire burning deep in him, almost in his bones; built-up tension from weeks of enforced celibacy that was making him jittery, quick with remarks and comebacks that were more bitter and sharp than they normally were. And he was just cutting Sam to pieces.

 

Sam’s face held that clenched pose for a moment longer, the tendons in his neck straining painfully outward, before he relaxed, a defeated look setting into his eyes as he lay back down against the headboard, sighing loudly. “It’s okay, Dean. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“No, it isn’t okay, Sam.” Now Dean was starting to get pissed off, and _shit_ , didn’t either of them have their emotions under control? Between Sam moping and being depressed and Dean worrying about being alone or leaving Sam alone, it was a wonder that either of them ever got anything done. “I didn’t want to do this, because you know I don’t do this … emotional crap very well-” Dean chose to ignore Sam’s _no shit_ muttered quietly. “But the point is that I’m worried about you. Really worried, and it’s making me go crazy. So, what we need to do is figure out some kind of compromise here, so you don’t look so bad and I can trust you to be alone again.”

 

“Trust me to be alone? Dean, what the hell are you talking about?” Sam’s calm demeanor lasted for under five minutes before he exploded again, this time leaping completely out of his bed and taking several steps towards Dean, one finger pointed accusingly at his brother. “This has _nothing_ to do with you, all right? It’s not your problem, it’s mine, and no one, not even you, can help me with it.”

 

“That’s bullshit, Sammy.” Dean got up as well, and even though Sam had the height advantage, he knew that he could still intimidate his little brother. Or, at least, he hoped that he could still intimidate his little brother; judging by the look Sam was giving him, he might have lost his edge. “Your problems are my problems, ever since you were a baby. If there’s something that you can’t handle, you let me know, and I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you, and if that means sitting up all night long, watching you and making sure that you don’t hurt yourself while you sleep, or if it means forcing you to eat an entire meal and then helping you after you hurl it all into the toilet afterwards, then I’ll do it.” Dean felt his eyes watering up, and _shit_ , this is why he hated this emotional crap. He was no good with it; just a few words out and he was already so close to tears (although, to be fair, Sam wasn’t looking too good himself, if the wet glint in his eyes was proof of anything).

 

“Dean, I-” Sam started, his voice hitching right around the time his knees gave out, sending him sprawling to the floor. Dean instantly reacted, falling right behind him and pulling Sam into his arms, just like he used to when Sammy was younger and had gotten hurt or scared. Because this time Sam was both hurt _and_ scared, but the problem was that Dean didn’t know what to do about it anymore. He was out of ideas, out of ways to solve anything, and all he could do was just hold his brother while he cried and cried until there was nothing left, until his voice was beyond hoarse, just above a whisper. 

 

The sun began to rise outside, filtered beams cutting through the blinds and hurting both of their eyes, and Dean’s legs had long-since frozen in a cramp when Sam finally said something again.

 

“So, this possessed tape?” his younger brother asked, looking up at Dean with eyes so sparkling and deep that Dean once more had to fight the burning desire coursing through his body, the same sense of _want_ that ran through him every time Sam looked at him _like that_. “You think we can get a copy somewhere?”

 

Dean smiled and, on a whim, pressed a kiss to the crown of Sam’s head, surprised when his younger brother neither did nor said anything about it. “I think we could manage that … I’ll get the demon-tape, you can get some popcorn and the salt.”

 

“Rock salt for a TV ghost?”

 

“No, dude, rock salt for the popcorn. What are you thinking?”

 

 

**_…g.n.i.n.i.h.s…e.h.t…_ **

 

 

“Where the hell have you been, man?” Dean asked, squinting at the strip of sunlight pouring in through the open door, the massive dark spot in the center belonging to Sam, who was holding three grocery bags in his hands. “You’ve been gone all afternoon.”

 

“Well, I was doing some checking up on the Butler’s Mansion, you know, seeing if there was any violent history or something,” Sam started, but Dean interrupted.

 

“I know that, dumb ass, because you called me and told me about it _two hours_ ago. It doesn’t take you two hours to get back from the library to the hotel, so, I ask you again, where the hell have you been?”

 

“If you’d stop interrupting me, maybe you’d find out,” Sam said, his voice lighter than Dean could remember it being in a _long time_ , since before Sam went away to college, and instantly Dean wondered if something in the library had possessed his brother. Sam was never cheery. _Never_. “Like I said, this thing only works on Tuesday nights, just like clockwork. It’s Sunday, so we’ve got two days before the old man shows up, so I figured that we would have to think of something to kill the time.”

 

“So we go to the bar down the street and hustle some pool,” Dean replied, eyeing the bags in Sam’s hands nervously. “I don’t see why this has to turn into a brother’s-night-out thing.”

 

“If I remember correctly, that was always _your_ idea.” Sam walked into the room, shutting the door behind him, and finally Dean was able to see what his brother was carrying; one bag contained a twelve-pack of beer, another an assortment of chips and snack foods, and the other had several video tapes inside. “And I already checked the bar; it’s closed on Sundays. So, we’re stuck here, and I figured that we could maybe watch some movies, eat some chips, and drink some beer.”

 

“Sam, you’ve just won my heart,” Dean said, only half-serious (half-serious because Sam had just showed up with beer, chips, and movies; that was almost like a marriage proposal for Dean) and rolling out of bed, clad only in boxers and a loose tee shirt, reaching for the movies concealed in the plastic sack. “Although I’m sure that you picked the all-time greatest in teeny tiny girl movies … Bambi, Princess Diaries, and Sleeping Beauty?”

 

“Very funny,” Sam said, and it was odd because he was actually _laughing_ , like he was in a really good mood or something, although there was a tremor in his voice like he was just a little bit nervous. Dean wondered why as he reached into the sack. “But no, they were out of Disney so I went with the next best thing. I hope it’s up to your standards.”

 

Before Dean could reply, he glanced down at the movies in his hands. On top was _The Shining_ , followed by _House of 1,000 Corpses_ and, disturbingly, _Brokeback Mountain_. Dean said nothing, merely cocking his eyebrow as he held up the last video for his brother to explain. Sam blushed just a bit, and looked down at his feet, and Dean felt a trail of fire burning deep in his stomach. _Christ it’s been two month_ s, he thought, mentally counting through the days and weeks since the last time he had gotten laid. 

 

“I heard good things about it, and they were running a deal to get three movies for three bucks for three days, and there was nothing else very good there, so I went for it,” Sam explained, racing through the sentence quickly, not meeting Dean’s eyes once. “You don’t have to watch it, you know …”

 

“I think I will, though,” Dean replied, amused by Sam’s embarrassment, and trying to ignore his own _interesting_ reaction to it. “I mean, it might _broaden_ my horizons or something,” he trailed off, letting the words sink in as Sam’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting Dean’s, twinkling madly. Dean was suddenly thankful for his baggy shirt, which was doing a fantastic job at covering up his sudden erection. “But not tonight. Tonight, I’m in the mood for creepy, blood and guts.” He pulled _The Shining_ out of its case and slipped the tape into the old VHS on the motel’s TV, hitting play and grabbing himself a beer and the bag of Doritos, already back on his bed and munching away happily before Sam seemed to snap out of it, grabbing himself a beer and some pretzels and moving to sit down as well.

 

However, in a typical Winchester fashion, Sam couldn’t just _let_ Dean get away with that sort of comment; as he had once said, their pranks always escalate. So instead of taking a seat on his own bed, Sam instead decided to plop down next to his brother, getting far too close for Dean’s comfort (or rather, not close enough for Dean’s _real_ comfort), chomping loudly on his pretzels and fixing his eyes to the movie.

 

“What, exactly, are you doing on my bed?” Dean asked after only five minutes, unable to deal with Sam’s closeness for much longer, the spicy scent of his younger brother driving him insane, reminding him of how long it had been since he felt someone so close to him, the solitary voice in his head screaming _he’s your brother_ growing softer and softer by the moment.

 

“I might get scared,” Sam said, his voice a hoarse whisper, his eyes glued to the scream as the opening credits played, the sound turned up loud. “And I might need you to protect me.”

 

Dean pushed his brother away with his shoulder, grimacing at the tingle that went through his body from just that short amount of contact. “Dude, cut it out,” he said, frowning and not even _looking_ at Sam. “We both know that these sorts of movies don’t _scare_ you, although you might have some sort of reaction to it.”

 

“I would say the same for you,” Sam replied quickly, a smirk in his tone, “but we both already know that you get that sort of reaction from watching clouds fly overhead.”

 

Dean didn’t say anything, because, yeah, it was true (and recently it had become even more true; just stepping into a _shower_ turned him on like he had entered the Playboy mansion instead) and that fact was starting to become all-too apparent with his younger brother pressed so closely to him.

 

No words were exchanged between the two for nearly an hour, and Dean had started to forget about Sam and the things he had said, the things that he had inferred as he got into the movie, when he felt a timid hand press against his, long fingers wrapping up in his own and gripping him hard. Turning towards his brother, Dean noticed that Sam had his dark blue eyes trained only on him. “What now?”

 

“This part’s actually kinda freaky,” Sam mumbled, blushing a bit and turning back to the movie, cringing as the twin ghost girls stood at the end of the long hallway on the screen. “Kids like that scare me.”

 

“Pansy,” Dean muttered, but despite that, he let Sam hold his hand for the rest of the movie, grinning madly every time the grip tightened and Sam let out a little noise that could have either been a gasp or a groan of frustration; Dean wasn’t about to look over and check, that was for sure. Finally the movie ended, and Sam let out a sigh of relief, pulling his sweaty hand out of Dean’s; Dean didn’t say anything, but he felt a twang of loss when his brother pulled away. 

 

Neither of them said anything for several minutes, and Dean took a final swig from the last beer and threw the bottle across the room, watching it roll across the carpet before coming to a stop as it hit the opposite wall. The next thing that Dean knew, Sam was in his lap, his lips pressed up against his own and his tongue forcefully pushing its way into his mouth in what had to be the most desperate kiss that Dean had ever had in his life.

 

“Sam what-” Dean started to say, but the second his mouth opened Sam jumped on the chance to push his way in, kissing Dean deeply and skillfully, running his large hands over Dean’s chest, pushing him back down forcefully on the hard motel bed. Dean’s hands came up as well, grasping Sam’s shoulders and, after a painfully indecisive moment where his brain just stopped functioning and he allowed his younger brother to continue to plunder his mouth, he pushed the bigger man away, just barely able to contain the groan that wanted to come out when he saw Sam’s wet, kiss-bruised lips hovering just over his own.

 

“Sammy,” Dean said, panting harshly, unable to call his brother by any other name, feeling almost sacrilegious even though he had known, _had always known_ , that his feelings for his brother went beyond what was normal. He had said it a million times; they were Winchesters, the rules didn’t really apply to them. “What are you doing?”

 

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Sam asked, biting his full lower lip nervously, his eyes sparkling, shining with a strange mixture of lust and nervousness, as though he was torn between kissing Dean again and launching himself as far away from the bed and his brother as possible. “I mean, you don’t mind, do you?”

 

Sam was stammering, and this was never a good sign … Dean knew that to turn his brother away now would send Sam into a brood that could last the better part of a week, and when traveling one-on-one with a person who refuses to talk, smile, or even _look_ at you, preferring to stare out of a window and look emo, you would do just about anything to avoid it.

 

But what would _anything_ include, exactly? Dean _knew_ that his body had no problems with just leaning up and catching Sam’s lips again; he _knew_ that he could easily flip his younger brother under him and he _knew_ that he could have him screaming his name out for all of the other hotel guests to hear in less than five minutes. Dean also knew that he hadn’t gotten laid in over two months, which was the longest he had gone ever since he started having sex (except for that one horrible month when he got that rash that he had never told anyone in his family about because he was too embarrassed and scared … the doctors said that it was fine, gave him some cream and a wink that made Dean feel like he was nine instead of nineteen, but that was beside the point), and his body was practically _shaking_ with the effort of restraining himself.

 

Could he do it? Could he really do _something_ with his brother, who was already so torn up from losing his girlfriend and finding out about his weird-as-hell visions? Would it mess him up even more, or would it help him to pull Sam back together, to try and piece together the parts of his little brother that had just shattered in the past year? Dean’s gut was telling him that it wouldn’t hurt, that it was at the least a favor between two brothers and at best a way for Sam to heal, and way for him to find some release, and Dean _always_ trusted his gut. 

 

With a cocky grin and a wink, Dean leaned up, just as he had envisioned, and caught Sam’s lips again, this time fully participating in the kiss, morphing it into something hot and sweet and powerful all at once, using his mouth to distract Sam long enough to flip the younger man over and onto his back, where Dean went in for the attack, pressing down against Sam under him, smiling into their kiss when Sam gave a low moan as Dean held him down, not allowing his brother to move at all.

 

“Dean,” Sam cried out as his older brother very deliberately pushed himself up and against the younger man’s erection, feeling the heated flesh through many layers of clothes. “Dean, again, please …”

 

Dean just smiled and did as Sam asked him to; it was okay to let his brother think that he was in the driver’s seat, that he was controlling this, because at the end of the day, this was sex, regardless if it was his little brother or not, and Dean was the man in any relationship. Even if that relationship happened to be with his brother, and even if he wasn’t completely and totally comfortable with that thought yet. It only took another hard thrust down onto Sammy, his erection stroking his brother’s in the most mind-melting way _ever_ , to quell all of those thoughts, and just to _feel_ the heat and pleasure coursing through him.

 

“God, Sam, you’re gonna have me comin’ in my pants,” Dean muttered, pressing his mouth to the smooth skin of Sam’s neck, sucking and biting at the tender flesh there, pulling a chorus of whines and small sounds from his brother as he continued to work just under his jaw. “I haven’t done that in _years_.”

 

“We can do more,” Sam whispered, pressing his hand to the back of Dean’s head and just holding it there as he continued to suck, sure that he was going to be leaving behind a hickey that would last for _at least_ a week, maybe more. Sam’s other hand began to trail down the back of Dean’s shirt, under the waistband of his jeans and boxers, lightly resting on his ass. Dean tensed at the feeling, stopping all of his movements. “I mean, if you want to, we can do something else.” Sam sounded nervous again, like he was really going out on a limb for his brother, and Dean had a visual in his mind of just _what_ he could do to his brother, and wondered if that was what Sammy had in mind.

 

“This is good,” Dean muttered, unable to think too much with the amount of _need_ racing through his veins, knowing that once he came the edge would be gone and he could think clearly again, knowing that once Sammy came the edge would be gone and he would be guilty about _everything_. “We don’t have to do anything else.”

 

Sam didn’t say anything, but Dean could almost _taste_ his disappointment, his hand retreating from Dean’s pants and quickly running back up his body, clasping around his shoulder as though to press him off, as though he thought that Dean didn’t want this anymore. However, the truth of it was that Dean _did_ want it, he wanted it _bad_ , and there was no way to tell Sam that with words. Winchesters aren’t very good with words. They act. 

 

Dean acted by abandoning Sam’s neck (which was just as red and sore-looking as he knew it would be) and fastening his lips back to his brother’s, kissing him deeply and skillfully, dragging his hips along Sam’s again quickly and painfully hard, swallowing Sam’s moan into their kiss.

 

It could have lasted forever, but the truth was that Dean hadn’t gotten laid in a couple of months and neither had Sam for even longer, and they were both too worked up on endorphins and adrenaline from knowing just how _wrong_ what they were doing to make it last. Sam came first, his hips jerking and twitching under Dean’s, and Dean was soon following, pounding down so hard on Sammy that he would discover bruises on his hips the next morning.

 

Their breath mingled and condensed on their faces, their bodies sticky with sweat and their jeans sticky with come. Sam’s eyes were still glittering, and Dean felt himself falling once more into their depths, the realization of just _what_ he had done with his brother nothing in comparison to knowing that he wanted, _needed_ , to do it again.

 

And then, suddenly, Sam’s eyes changed, steeling over and locking down, and then the hand on his shoulder _was_ pushing him away, rolling him over so that Sam could escape, rolling off of the bed quickly and stumbling over to the bathroom. Dean didn’t say anything, _couldn’t_ say anything to stop Sam, watching as he pulled the door open and slammed it shut behind him, locking it. Dean managed to get up and had changed his pants by the time he heard the shower head turn on, and he was just about to knock on the door, to say something, to say _anything_ , when he heard, vaguely, just barely louder than the sound of the spraying water, the sounds of his brother hurling into the toilet.

 

As much as Dean didn’t want to leave Sam alone, he _couldn’t_ stay in that room, couldn’t stand to smell the scent of their sex and hear his brother rip himself apart over it without going insane. Taking his cell phone and his gun with him, Dean grabbed the keys to the Impala and took off, finding the first bar he could and not coming home until he was thrown out by a gang of rednecks that he had bested in poker three hours later.

 

When he got back to the room, his bed was completely remade and fresh-smelling, as though a maid had been in, and Sam was lying on his own bed, eyes closed, looking peaceful save for the two tears tracks running down his cheeks.


	2. Part 2

**_…k.e.e.r.c…f.l.o.w…_ **

 

 

Dean was at a loss of what to do, and things were getting worse and worse by the day. It had been two weeks since _that night_ – Dean always placed an emphasis on those words whenever he thought about it – and he was nearing the end of his rope. Sam, who Dean thought could get no worse, no more depressed and angsty, had taken it to a new level, locking himself away in the car or the bathroom, crying in his sleep (that is, when he _did_ sleep, which still wasn’t half as much as Dean would like), barely managing to stomach anything heavier than coffee or fruit, constantly dragging on cigarettes with shaking fingers ( _When the hell did you start smoking_ , Dean had asked one night when he caught Sammy leaning back against the trunk of the Impala, numerous butts littering the ground already, and Sam had just shrugged and said, _It helps me stay calm, keeps the headaches away_ ). 

 

He had even tried calling John once, leaving a voicemail, knowing that he sounded scared and hoping that it would be enough to get John to at least _call him_ , because Dean had never had to live through losing someone so close to him like John had and he had no idea how to be treating Sam. But, it hadn’t really mattered, because that had been days ago and John hadn’t even left him a _message_ , so it was clear that he was really on his own on this one.

 

So, Dean decided that they needed a break one afternoon, having spent the better part of the week watching Sam huddled over his laptop, his skinny shoulders visible under his thick hoody as he researched their latest case; numerous UFO sightings in Arizona. They had talked to the witnesses, had done all the background checks and gotten all of the information they could on aliens ( _Aliens? You’ve gotta be joking, right?_ … Sam hadn’t been joking) before eventually deciding that it was a bust. They hadn’t even had to go out to the supposed site; a big crater located about six miles off of any road, in the middle of nowhere, where the stoned hippies reported that they saw flashing lights hovering about ten feet off of the ground on night.

 

“Let’s go out to the crater,” Dean said, looking up from where he was packing his things into his bag, the Impala pulled up to the door so that they could quickly load her up and get out of there. “Barringer is only about three hours from here; we could be there and hike to the spot by nightfall.”

 

Sam looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time that day, his expression confused and unguarded for a second before steeling over as he looked back down to his own things, mumbling softly, “Why?”

 

“Because, we don’t have another lead right now, and I want to see this place. Who knows, maybe we’ll see some aliens?” Dean joked, hoping to at least get a smile from his younger brother. He didn’t. “At least it’ll be cheap lodging, on account that it’s the middle of the desert.”

 

Sam didn’t say anything, just continued packing. Dean sighed, and grabbed the pillow off of his bed, tossing it at his younger brother who was caught off guard, pegging him in the head. Sam didn’t even look _upset_ when he bothered to glance up at Dean again. “Grab the pillows and blankets off of the bed,” Dean said, smiling although it felt like the _last_ thing he wanted to do at the time. “We’ll just go ahead and let,” he paused to look down at the card he had used _this time_ , “Dr. Gurtrude pay for ‘em.”

 

Two hours later saw the Winchester boys slowly making their way across the Arizona desert, both of them stripped down to their undershirts, carrying packs on their backs and stumbling over rocks and stubby plants littering the ground. The ridge of the crater, standing high in the air above them, was just over a mile away.

 

Sam hadn’t said anything since that morning; Dean had blasted the radio the whole way there, singing at the top of his lungs as though it would make Sam react and do or say something, but he got no reaction. When he swung through a McDonald’s and picked up two meals, setting one of them in Sam’s lap, his younger brother didn’t move at all, and when they finally stopped, Dean took the meal from him and shoved it in his bag, thinking that maybe he would eat it later on as a snack.

 

Dean was getting more or less used to the silence, but that didn’t make him feel any better about it. Sometimes he would think that maybe what happened _that night_ was a bad mistake, and that it was his fault for the way Sam was acting, but the more rational part of his brain (which, granted, wasn’t the largest part, but it was still functional) told him that no matter what he had done, Sam was bound to slip to this place eventually, and at worst, all he did was make him fall a little faster.

 

But, Dean was trying to be optimistic; maybe if Sam could hit rock bottom, then he could finally start to pull himself back up, to find a reason to keep going beyond finding dad and killing the demon. But in the face of such long-standing silence, even Dean was beginning to doubt that he would ever have his brother, his sarcastic, bitter yet energetic brother back. And although he wouldn’t admit it that thought was beyond painful to think about.

 

Two more hours later and they were there, standing on the rim of the crater, and Dean couldn’t help but to think about just the _size_ of the thing that had impacted the earth there, couldn’t help but think about the amount of damage that it had done. It made him wonder why something had hit the world there, at that specific spot, instead of anywhere else. It made him think about his life; why had the demon come for them? What did it want? Was Sam right when he said that the demon wanted him, and if so, why was Sam so special? Why couldn’t they have been normal?

 

Dean didn’t want normal; he had never complained about how his life turned out … he just accepted things the way they were and went with it. But sometimes he wished for normal, just because then Sam wouldn’t be like a shadow, like a dead man walking. But, since Sam couldn’t have normal, Dean was determined to give him the next best thing: Dean. He wouldn’t let anyone or anything, including Sam, hurt his younger brother. And that is why he had brought them out there in the first place; he had a place to talk to his brother, to finally say, and if need be, _do_ the things that he needed to say and _do_. And out in the desert, there was no place for Sam to go, nothing for him to do but to hear him out.

 

However, in a typical Sam Winchester move, his younger brother beat him to the punch. Long hours of silence had passed between the two of them, and Dean was still mentally preparing himself for what he _knew_ was going to be a long, drawn-out emotional confrontation between the two brothers, when Sam turned to him, sprawled out beside him on a blanket laid on the ground, and said, “Dean, I know that you’re scared.”

 

Dean, who was more than shocked by the sound of his brother’s voice, tried to mask his surprise by creasing his brow and turning over to face his brother, whose face was only inches from his own. “You do?” he asked, and _damn it_ if his voice didn’t sound high-pitched and scared and, _shit_ , fuckin’ _girly_.

 

Sam smiled just a bit, and his dimples stood out in stark relief in his pale, drawn face, and he nodded slightly. “Yeah, and I know that you’ve been squirming for the last half hour because you want to say something to me about it.”

 

“Then why the hell didn’t you say something, Sam?” And Dean didn’t _want_ Sam to start this, didn’t want Sam to make this on his terms, because shit, he was the big brother, the protector, and he was in charge here. He needed Sam to know that, from the start. “Don’t you even _know_ what the hell you’re doing to me, making me worry so much about you?”

 

“What do you mean-” Sam began to ask, but _fuck_ that. Dean was driving this conversation.

 

“What do I mean?” And yeah, Dean sounded a little hysterical, just maybe, but fuck it all, he was tired and scared and emotional and everything that he _hated_ to be, and he was going to fix his brother somehow, and this was the only thing left that he hadn’t tried. He couldn’t lose Sam, not that he’d got him back, and if he had to deal with all this weird … _sexual_ … stuff that had suddenly come up between his younger brother and himself, then he would do it. No problem. “Sam, it’s been nine months since Jess,” and Dean felt Sam tense up next to him, and he didn’t want to hurt his younger brother, but this _needed_ to be said, “and every single day, you just get worse and worse. You’re a wreck, Sam, and I just can’t watch you do this to yourself anymore.” His mouth tightened into a frown, and his face was grim. “I _won’t_ let you do this to yourself.”

 

“You can’t help me Dean,” Sam said, his voice tired and resigned. “Not with this.”

 

“Like hell.” And Dean said nothing more, knowing that he couldn’t say what he needed to say with words, rolling over and on top of his brother, pressing his hands and body and _lips_ to Sam’s own, starting this thing between them this time, knowing that nothing mattered, nothing in the world made any bit of sense unless he had Sam with him, and if this was the only way he could have Sam, then he would do it. No problem, not at all.

 

“Dean,” Sam whispered, backing away from his lips, his voice choked and stuttering, like he was sobbing and laughing all at once, like he was going insane and he was dragging Dean down with him. But Dean wasn’t talking, not anymore. He pushed down against his brother again, silencing him once more, tongue sweeping deep in Sammy’s mouth, tasting him, tasting the tears that were tracking down his younger brother’s cheeks, tasting the salt and grief and _Sam._

 

“Oh Dean, _Jesus_.” Sam’s hands were moving up his back, bunching into tight fists in his shirt, leaving behind marks for sure and Dean couldn’t care less because this was finally _okay_ , this was Sam and not some stranger who just _looked_ like Sam, squirming and moaning beneath him. And yeah, they were only just kissing. But Dean knew how to kiss, he’d been told so by many, _many_ women before, so that was just to be expected. There was no difference kissing his brother, no problem. And Sam sure as hell seemed to like it, _so why are we still thinking, brain?_

 

Dean shifted a bit, pulling himself up to his knees so that he was more on top of his brother, more balanced, pressing his thigh against Sam’s crotch and smiling into the younger man’s kiss as he felt the hardness straining inside those baggy jeans. Dean gave an experimental brush with his leg, grinding it against Sam’s length, and repeated the motion again when he heard Sam’s choked-off cry of pleasure in response.

 

There was nothing else, no one else but them. Dean knew that he could make Sammy loud, make him cry out and then just listen to the echoes for _hours_ afterwards; with a wicked smirk on his face, he trailed a hand down his brother’s torso, finding and flicking open the top bottom of Sam’s jeans and just _resting_ his hand on his brother’s erection, not moving at all, just feeling the heat from Sam’s body.

 

Sam’s hands were like claws in his back, and his younger brother _whimpered_ as he thrust up, trying desperately to force Dean’s hand to move down, move over him, to take him out and just _touch_ him, his mouth tearing from Dean’s to fasten on to his neck as he begged, “Please, please, _please_.”

 

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” Dean said, inching his fingers up to Sam’s zipper, tracing his fingers over the serrated edges once before going back up to gently pull down the zip, Sam’s erection straining so hard against his boxers that it was nearly peaking out, and Dean had to bite back his own lusting grunt at the sight of his younger brother, his little Sammy, the kid he had grown up with the kid that he had always needed to protect, losing himself under his hands. It was incredible, the ultimate rush. Dean felt like the most important person in the world at that time, the most important person in Sam’s _universe_ , and it felt _so right_. “I’ll take care if it, I’ll take care of you … just,” and his voice broke, stuck in a husky whisper lodged deep in his throat, almost unable to come about … he could hardly _breathe_ he was so aroused … “Just _don’t_ stop talking.”

 

“No, Dean, I won’t, I promise,” Sam muttered, his eyes drifting shut, tongue still tracing around Dean’s jaw as his older brother worked his hand into Sam’s boxers, easing out his tender flesh and giving it a couple of light, teasing strokes, trying to memorize the feel of him, how he pulsed in his hand and how slick the head _already_ was, as though Sam had been hard for _hours_.

 

“Tell me you want this,” Dean whispered, moving his mouth over to Sam’s ear, displacing his brother’s lips with an unsatisfied grunt from the younger Winchester, not wanting to break his brother’s contact with his neck but needing to hear the truth for himself, needing to know that Sam was with him on this. Because, honestly, Dean had always had feelings for Sam; for as long as he could remember, Dean could see the beauty in Sam, and could never understand how so many people just _overlooked_ him like he was invisible. Dean _knew_ that he looked good; he had been told often enough that his appearance was just another weapon that he could wield, but the thing about Sam was that he wasn’t just beautiful ( _he was_ ) but that he was like a _magnet_ , just pulling people towards him, good and bad and everyone in between, and what was worse was that he didn’t even realize that he could do it. So yeah, Dean wanted this, had wanted Sam forever … and he thought that Sam wanted it too, judging by the hardness slapped against his palm, but he needed to _hear_ it. He had to hear Sam say _yes_ with those lips, teeth, and tongue of his, because that would make it okay.

 

And then Dean would make it okay for Sam. He’d fix Sam, he’d fix this, with hands, lips, and cock … he’d fix what damage the demon and the world had done to his brother. Because that’s what Dean Winchester did, because he was the older brother and that was his responsibility. _Sam_ …

 

“I want this,” Sam murmured, lips pressed into Dean’s hair in a position that _had_ to be hurting his neck, almost desperately trying to keep in contact with Dean. He thrust up into Dean’s hand again and again, whimpering like someone half his age would, his eyes closed tight with pleasure and a slick sweat covering his forehead. “I want you … _oh God_ , please, Dean …”

 

“Okay,” Dean replied, but in his mind it kept going and going, _okayokayokayokayokayokayokay_ , and with a final lick and a nibble to an earlobe that was going to be bruised and sore by the morning, Dean pulled away, looking down at the shaking mess that was Sam, nothing but skin and bones and clothes, instantly deciding that he needed to see his brother, _all_ of him, _now._

 

“Take off your pants, Sammy,” he whispered, reluctantly pulling his hand out of his brother’s boxers so he could quickly pull and tear away at his own shirt, flinging it over his head and down the side of the crater, not caring that he would have to climb down there and get it later (because he only had _so_ many shirts, and he couldn’t afford to waste a single one of them), before reaching for his fly, not once taking his eyes off of Sam as his brother worked those long, elegant limbs of his, gracefully pulling off his clothes like he was a porn star, managing to remove everything before Dean could even shuck off his boots, laying back down on the blanket, propped on his elbows with a small smirk on his face.

 

And to Dean, the view was perfect, Sam’s gorgeous body stretched out in front of him, but Dean had always seen things from an older brother’s point-of-view, and what was worse, he saw it through a really _fuckin_ ’ rose-tinted glass at that. Because although he _saw_ the protruding ribs and collarbones, pressing out painfully from pale skin marred with mysterious bruises, none of that registered in his mind. Because it was _Sam_ in front of him, and Sam had _always_ been beautiful, even when he was a child or when he was covered in rashes that one time or when he was crying and hurting and in Dean’s arms … _Sam is so gorgeous_ …

 

“Dean?” Sam asked, smirk sliding away as nervousness seemed to take hold, and Dean realized belatedly that he had just been, _fuck_ , staring at Sam like he was some sort of _God_ or something, not saying or doing anything, standing there with his pants half-off like he was some kind of freaked out virgin or something. “Is this all right?”

 

Dean could only nod, could only pull his pants off the rest of the way and carefully step out of them so that he didn’t trip and fall on top of Sammy, so that he didn’t hurt his younger brother. He rested himself on top of Sam as gently as he could, not pressing down against those brittle bones but shifting his weight so that his erection was lined up with Sam’s once more, without the barriers of cloth between them, feeling the heads rub against each other, slick and sweet as he rocked forward, tearing identical cries of pleasure from both of their lips. 

 

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said, rocking back and forth in a steady rhythm, feeling an excited tingling going on in his stomach, the combining forces of arousal and knowing that what he was doing was _wrong_ , giving him more than just a little rush. “This is all right … this is _perfect_.”

 

Lots of people had told Dean that he was a sweet-talker in the sack, and he was never prouder of that fact than when he saw his brother’s eyes light up with pure happiness, as though Dean was finally doing something right and fixing him. _Making Sam better_. 

 

It was Sam’s hands, pressing firmly against his hips and halting his movement that broke him from his euphoric, twisted high, brining him sharply back down to Earth, shattering those rose-tinted glasses when he saw just how _young_ his brother looked, trembling and twitching underneath him. 

 

“Sammy?” Dean asked, not liking the oddly high-pitched and nervous sound to his voice, realizing for the first time how _hard_ it would be for him to stop if his brother asked him to. But, if Sam wanted him to stop, then he would. He wouldn’t hurt his brother, he wouldn’t. But, _thank God_ , Sam’s eyes weren’t scared, they were glowing and sparkling just like always and as usual, Dean could feel himself falling down down down into their depths.

 

“Dean, please …” Sam said, pausing to lick his kiss-bruised lips and making it very _fucking_ hard for Dean not to bend his neck down just a bit to capture them again, wanting so badly to taste his brother once more. “Please … can I?” Sam flushed, as though he could only _act_ instead of say, and unfortunately, all of Dean’s brain cells were currently on vacation, having taken their leave of absence the second that he had pressed his lips to his brother’s, and he had no idea what Sammy was trying to get at.

 

“Please what?”

 

Famous last words – Sam’s emancipated body was clearly not as weak as it appeared, and for the moment it was as if his spirit was as strong as ever. Spindly legs wrapped around Dean’s waist, bringing their erections together again, creating painful and mind-numbing pleasure as the two lengths slid against one another, and before Dean even knew what was going on, before he could ever register that his brother had moved, Sam had managed to flip them over, pinning his smaller brother under him, nothing but arms and legs and bones pressing down on him, so sharply that they had to be leaving bruises.

 

Dean would wear those bruises as badges of pride later on.

 

There was a searing-hot mouth on his chest, and Dean hissed with surprise as Sam trailed his lips down his brother’s body, stopping to lick and then nip at one of his nipples, and Dean had never really been sensitive there, but he wouldn’t say that to his brother. Never. Instead, he just gasped a little louder, trying to reassure Sam as he moved even farther down, feeling the trembling of the body over his and knowing that Sam was just as freaked out by this as he was. Feeling the hard erection pressing down on him and knowing that Sam was just as turned on by this as he was.

 

“Sam, you don’t have to-” Dean started to choke out, but his voice was immediately stolen from him as Sam’s hot mouth closed in over his straining erection, his younger brother’s tongue pressing up against the underside of his cock, his lips wide and stretched around Dean, cheeks hollowed as he lightly sucked. Dean propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes nearly rolling back into his skull from pleasure when he glanced down the length of his body to look at Sammy, who was bobbing up and down slightly, not able to take all of Dean into his mouth, one of his hands running up Dean’s thigh to pump the base of his cock as Sam focused his sucking and lips and _teeth_ on the crown. It wasn’t the best blow job that Dean had ever received (not that he would ever complain about _anyone_ blowing him) but it was most exciting. Sam was his brother, Sam was his responsibility, and Sam was his _life_. 

 

Dean could have let Sam do that to him _forever_ ; just holding his head gently with his hand, fingers tracing over the hollows in his brother’s cheeks, over flickering eyelids, brushing his bangs back to see his mouth moving down and back up over him, taking him in more and more each and every time. Dean _could_ have let Sam do that to him, but what Dean wanted was to make his brother feel just as good as he did, wanted Sam to feel that deep, never ceasing emotion that was currently coursing through Dean’s veins at that very moment.

 

And Sammy, _bless his psychic little heart_ , seemed to pick up on that the same moment that Dean thought it in, because that sultry and perfect mouth pulled off of him, and even though it was what he wanted he couldn’t stop the tiny groan of loss. And Sam’s eyes met his, and Dean could see the indecision there; Sam wanted, it seemed, nothing more than to take care of Dean, to finish him off, despite his own arousal. However, Dean wasn’t about to let Sam take care of him … that was _his_ job to look after his brother.

 

“Get up here,” Dean whispered, holding his arms out wide so that his larger brother could easily settle down on his chest, cuddling close to him. His lips were wet and shiny with spit and precome, and Dean wound his fingers into Sam’s hair to tug his head down to his own, meeting his brother’s lips and tasting himself on his brother, kissing him with all of the intensity he could muster. 

 

“Dean,” Sam sighed, his eyes closing quickly as he gently rocked down against Dean. “Please, I need…” 

 

Sam didn’t have to say it, because Dean was already one step ahead of him. His discarded jeans were still lying close enough to him that he could easily reach out with one hand and snag them, getting into one of the pockets where he had stored the lubricant before even coming out to the crater. At the time, Dean had thought that bringing such an item along was wishful thinking … but it only took one glance at his brother for Dean to realize that it had been one of the best choices he had ever made.

 

Dean moved the little tube out of his jeans and held it up before Sam’s piercing gaze, quirking his eyebrow and asking, nonverbally, _are you okay with this?_ And Sam, whose eyes never left his own, staring at him with an intensity that almost frightened Dean, responded with an inaudible _yes_.

 

Setting the tube down on the ground, Dean placed both of his hands under his brother’s hips and used a simple rocking motion to build enough momentum to roll them both over gently, so that they were still on the blanket but far enough to the side so that they could just see inside of the crater. It was a beautiful view, Dean thought, but not half as nice as the sight of his brother underneath of him again, looking at him in such an adoring way, there weren’t even words to convey the feeling between each other.

 

There was a pillow, stolen from the hotel, next to Sam; Dean grabbed at it and eased it under his brother, canting the younger man’s hips up, pulling away from his lips and gently kissing at his neck, running one free hand along the length of Sam’s abdominals. One he was in a better position, Dean pulled back all of the way, focusing on opening the fresh tube of lube and getting a generous amount on his fingertips, sparing a glance to Sammy, who was still looking at him like he was the most important person in the universe.

 

“Sam, have you ever?” Dean asked, not wanting to say it explicitly, but needing to know if Sam had ever been with anyone like that before. Dean hadn’t, that was for sure, but he’d known plenty of girls who loved to do it anally, so he knew the pattern; slick and stretch. But if Sam hadn’t done this before, then Dean was going to take his time, going to make it perfect for him, because he would _never_ hurt Sam. 

 

Sam just shook his head, his bangs flopping back into his eyes, making it hard for Dean to look at him anymore. Dean didn’t like that, and with a solemn look, he brushed the bangs back, unintentionally getting some lube in Sam’s hair, using it to slick the hair back so that it wouldn’t accidentally come forward again. Sam just smiled as his hair was defiled, looking more like himself than he had in months, and said, “You do realize now that I’m going to have dibs on the first shower, right?”

 

“We’ll take it together,” Dean said, smiling just as much as Sam was, padding sticky fingers down over Sam’s hips and around his back, and there was no fear in his brother, even as Dean began to probe around virgin territory. “I really want to wash your hair.”

 

“That’s some kink,” Sam said, but the sentiment trailed off as a gasp when Dean ever-so-gently inserted his pointer finger into his brother’s hole, just the tip, not far enough to hurt or even barely enough to _feel_ , but Sam noticed all the same. 

 

“I wouldn’t be talking about kinks right now if I was you, little bro,” Dean said, smirking as he pressed in even farther, until he was almost in to the knuckle. Sam was canting his hips slightly as Dean moved his finger in and out at a slow pace, animalistic whimpers escaping from his open mouth, his eyes clenched tightly shut. Dean pulled his finger from Sam’s body, squeezed a little more lubricant out of the tube onto his fingers, and then replaced his single digit with two. The going was a bit tougher – Sam’s body was possibly the tightest thing Dean had ever felt in his life – but within moments Dean’s two fingers were readily accepted into Sam. 

 

“How’s that feel, Sammy?” Dean asked, slightly pulling the two fingers apart, scissoring them gently, opening up the powerful muscle that Sam was currently pressing down on him with. Sam’s eyes flew open at the sound of his brother’s voice, pupils completely blown, looking wild.

 

“Feels like…” Sam started, his breath hitching as Dean brushed up against his brother’s prostate for the first time, making Sam look like he had been shocked by an electric current judging by the intensity of his reaction to the stimulation. “Feels like Dean,” Sam finished with, bucking down onto his brother’s fingers as they continued to press inside of him, alternating between stretching him and playing with his prostate. “Feels so good, though … really good.”

 

“Awesome,” Dean murmured, not really sure what to say, knowing that there was no way he could put how he was feeling into words. Thankfully, Sam didn’t seem to notice his brother’s awkwardness, instead just coiling his body even tighter around Dean’s fingers in response to the pleasure. 

 

“Please, Dean, can I have more?” Sam asked, and Dean hesitated, his fingers still deep in Sam’s body, twisting around slowly, trying to worm their way in even farther. 

 

“Sam, I don’t know if you’re ready-”

 

“I’m ready,” Sam replied, interrupting his brother, his eyes determined and his mouth set in a firm line. “I can take it.”

 

Dean knew that Sam probably wasn’t really ready; he hadn’t spent half as long preparing him as he had done with the girls, but at the same time, the constant throbbing from his groin was starting to take priority, his neglected arousal full-heartedly agreeing with Sam. _It’s been so long_ , Dean thought, staring down at his brother, wondering how incredibly amazing it would feel to be sheathed inside of Sam, closer to him than anyone had ever been before. Closer than anyone else deserved to be; this was to be something for Dean only. Only Dean would ever have such a privilege.

 

“Okay,” Dean replied, pulling his fingers out with a soft _popping_ sound as they cleared Sam’s body, still glistening with the remaining lubricant. He placed another good deal of lube on the palm of his hand, spreading it evenly over his erection, which was pulsing lightly in his grip, the pressure of his hand and the slip-slide of the lube way more pleasurable than he had thought it would be. For one terrifying moment, Dean was sure that he was going to come right there, even before he could get _inside_ of Sam, but a quick and hard grip on the base of his erection stopped that quickly enough.

 

“Look at me, Sammy,” Dean said, lining himself up with his brother’s entrance, not pressing in, just resting against the slight resistance, his hands firmly planted on Sam’s hips, keeping them from moving. His brother’s eyes were still clenched tightly shut, and all over he was trembling, a fine sheen of sweat making his body glitter in the late-afternoon light. “Come on, Sam, just look at me,” Dean said once more, a strange note, not entirely unlike begging, coming into his voice. “Please.”

 

It took a few moments, and then Sam’s eyelids started to slowly come apart, the lashes clumped together into spikes and tears flowing freely down his cheeks. At first Dean thought that Sam was crying in pain or embarrassment or revulsion … like he didn’t want Dean, didn’t want _that_ with Dean … but then Sam was smiling, a true smile, and even though there were tears on his face he looked happier than Dean had seen him in a long, long time.

 

“Please, Dean,” Sam said, his voice just above a whisper, gruff and tired-sounding. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

 

Dean simply nodded, and, sticking his tongue out slightly, brow furrowing in concentration, he began to thrust in, going slower than slow as he inched his way into his brother. The head of his cock was just barely inside when Sam’s face screwed up with pain for the first time, and Dean would have pulled out right then and there if Sam hadn’t of clamped down on him with his powerful inner muscles so tightly, holding him there, a stubborn look in his eyes. “Dean, don’t,” he ground out, his eyes still open, tears still running in currents down his hollowed cheeks, “Just … go slow. Don’t stop.”

 

Sighing, Dean nodded again, and once Sam had eased up a bit, he began to move again, going even slower, ignoring his body’s impulse to just _slam_ forward, to get into that deep, wet heat _now_. He stopped moving once more, when he was half-way in, taking one hand off of Sam’s hips and moving it under one of his knees, moving one of Sam’s spindly, long legs over his shoulder, so that he could get Sam into a more comfortable position, or so he thought. Sam whined a bit as Dean moved him, and hearing that noise was almost too much for Dean, because he knew that he _had_ to be hurting his brother by that point, he just _had_ to be. And so, as a last-ditch effort, Dean leaned down, the angle awkward as he wasn’t completely in Sam yet, and kissed his brother deeply, tasting the salt of tears on Sam’s lips and himself still on Sam’s tongue. Sam sighed into the kiss, and with a shift of hips, managed to pull his brother in the rest of the way with one long, slick slide.

 

If not for Dean’s mouth, Sam’s cry of pain might have echoed off of all of the walls of the crater, but as it was, the muffled sound was still loud enough to echo painfully in Dean’s heart. He didn’t move for several long minutes, just holding still as Sam’s body moved around him, the muscles twitching. Finally, after what felt like a forever of doing nothing, Sammy gave him a sharp little nod, barely moving at all, but it was all the encouragement Dean needed; he pulled out, almost completely vacating Sam’s body before pushing back in, thrusting in slowly yet deeply, Sam’s body accepting him back in like a vice. The pressure and feeling was almost too much for Dean to handle; he buried his head in the crook of Sam’s neck, biting softly at the skin there to muffle the sounds coming from his mouth.

 

Sam, however, was not so intent on being quiet; he shook, he shuddered, and most noticeably, he _screamed_ , so loudly that Dean was positive that they could be heard from over one hundred miles away. Not that he cared any; listening to Sam as he thrust into him over and over again, knowing that it was _him_ who was making those sounds come out of his brother’s mouth was perfect to Dean. It was the best-sounding voice he had ever heard in his life, and right then and there Dean swore to himself that he would do whatever he could to make his brother sound like that as often as possible.

 

Dean’s thrusts began to speed up as Sam’s body began to gradually accept him, loosening up enough for Dean to get some better leverage. Reaching blindly, his head still tucked away in his brother’s neck, Dean grabbed at Sam’s other leg and pushed it violently over his shoulders, pressing the palms of his hands on the blanket just behind Sammy’s head and then _slamming_ forward, using the ground to propel himself as his thrusts began to push even deeper into Sam’s body.

 

The cries coming from his brother, the _yes yes yes, oh God, Dean, that’s so … yes_ increased exponentially as Dean felt himself brush up against Sam’s prostate, causing his brother to arch up so violently that he nearly bucked Dean off of him. Regardless, he still screwed up Dean’s rhythm, but by that point it was nearly a free-for-all for both of the brothers, a kind-of race to see who could get off first. Dean was pretty sure that Sammy was going to win this one, if he had anything to say about it.

 

Determined to see Sam come first, Dean switched all of his weight onto one hand, pulling the other away and moving it quickly down Sam’s body, ghosting over quivering muscles and goose-pimpled flesh, to wrap around his younger brother’s erection firmly. Pearly precome coated the head completely, and Dean smirked as he swiped a thumb over Sam’s dick, just at the same time as he thrust deep into his brother and hit his prostate. Sam began to pant and shake even more as Dean continued to stroke him in time with his thrusts, his eyes closed against the skin of Sam’s neck in concentration, willing himself not to come until he was sure that Sam had finished. Dean just prayed that Sam was close, because otherwise he would surely go insane.

 

Finally, after what seemed like hours (although, to be fair, some of the best hours of his life), Sam’s body went completely rigid under his, all his muscles pulled as tight as possible, veins standing out starkly just under his skin, and Dean felt several splashes of come land between them, coating their chests, stomachs, and Dean’s hand.

 

Dean pulled his head away from Sam’s shoulder as he continued to thrust, now going deeper and harder than ever, wanting to finish now, wanting to come so deeply inside of his brother that no one else would _ever_ be in him as much as Dean was. Sam’s eyes met his, and even though they looked tired and weary, like Sam had been awake for far too long (which, really, he had been, but that wasn’t the point just then), they were no longer dead; they were brimming with tears and emotion. Just one look into Sam’s eyes and Dean was falling, just like he always had done whenever his younger brother had pinned him with that killer stare of his, except this time instead of flushing and looking away, Dean just cried out and buried himself in his brother all the way to the hilt, filling his brother up just like he wanted to, feeling the euphoria of his orgasm leaching into his strength and making him woozy with its intensity.

 

Countless minutes later, and the two of them were both dressed again, huddling together on top of the dirty blanket, the pillow tucked under Dean’s head as Sam curled himself around his older brother, his head on Dean’s chest. The sun had already set, and the stars above their heads were as bright as either brother had ever seen them before. Dean chanced a look down, and saw that Sam’s eyes were closed, and, for the first time in a long time, he saw that his brother was peacefully sleeping. Dean couldn’t stop the smile from ghosting his face as he thought, _I did it … I finally helped him, made him better._

 

He didn’t really think about how hard Sam was clutching at his hand, nails pressed in so tightly that they were drawing blood … and in the morning, when Sam would ask about Dean’s hand, Dean would just shrug it off and say that he didn’t know what had happened. There was no need to worry Sam, no need.


	3. Part Three

**_…s.t.s.o.h.g…n.e.e.t.r.i.h.t…_ **

 

 

It was a ghost collector in Nebraska this time; some crazy old loon who thought that he could defeat death and prolong his own life forever if he could just harness the spirits of those who had already died and use their energy to keep himself from kicking the bucket. Dean hadn’t felt anything when he gunned the psychopath down, because to him, he was just another kind of monster, albeit in human skin.

 

Even though the dead man had been a monster, he had been a _wealthy_ monster, and after all the ghosts that had been locked inside the man’s mansion had been released into the ether, Dean figured that it would just be a _crime_ not to stay in the house for a few days … after all, everyone in the vicinity already thought that the place was haunted and no one would bother them. Sam was jittery, looking out of the windows all of the time, chain-smoking like it was going out of style (he’d asked him to stop, really, because it wasn’t good for him, and Sam always told him _tomorrow_ ), startling whenever he heard the engine of another car or the voices of someone who wasn’t his brother, and Dean didn’t really want to expose Sammy to any of the nearby small towns for a few days until he could calm his brother down.

 

Their … relationship (and Dean didn’t really want to call it that; he’d be just fine by saying that they were fucking, but Sam was really into that emotional stuff and so he called it a relationship to make his brother feel better) had been steadily growing more and more intense, ever since that day on the crater nearly two months beforehand. They hadn’t found dad yet, hadn’t been left any messages or coordinates, and had spent the time since then floating from job to job, hunting things by day (or night when they had to) and sleeping in each other’s arms. And, Dean couldn’t stop the smile as he thought about it. Sam was finally starting to get better. Finally. He was eating and sleeping more, looking more human than he had in months, smiling often and even telling awful jokes that Dean laughed at just because he knew that it would make Sam feel better.

 

Of course, there was still that whole anti-social problem; if Dean ever left the room, even to go to the bathroom to take a piss, Sam started to freak out. Once, when the walls of the hotel room had been closing in on him from all sides and he felt like he couldn’t even _breathe_ anymore, Dean had asked Sam if he wanted to go out; play some pool, drink some beers, _God forbid_ talk to other people about something not-at-all related to ghosts, demons, or curses. Sam had just looked at him for a few seconds, hurt flashing on his face, then confusion, sort of like, _why do we need to talk to people, Dean?_ , before he closed up again, smiled with dead eyes, and shook his head and said, “No, that’s okay. You can go Dean … I’ve got some things I wanted to do anyways.”

 

Normally, Dean wouldn’t have gone, not after he saw that reaction in Sam’s eyes, but the truth of the matter was he was going to go completely fucking _crazy_ if he couldn’t get out for just a few hours and pretend that his life wasn’t some never-ending hunt. Sam thought that he could live a normal life forever and had gotten burned by it; Dean _knew_ that neither of them could ever be normal, but at least he could pretend every now and again. And, it wasn’t like he was looking for a pick-up or something; he had Sam, and their _relationship_ or whatever, and that was good enough for now. 

 

So, Dean had gone to some bar, played some pool, got some phone numbers that he knew he was never going to call, got himself a little buzzed and a lot more horny before he decided to head back to the hotel room. He was absently rubbing himself through his jeans as he got the keys to the room out with one hand, fumbling with the lock, wondering if Sam was getting some sleep, when he got the first sense that something was _wrong_. Instantly, his arousal was gone and his buzz was toast; things became crystal-clear in a horrifying way as the door creaked open … the bloodstain on the floor wasn’t very large, but it was enough to worry Dean, enough to make his heart skip a few beats and to make him stop breathing as his eyes followed the pitter-patter trail all of the way from the front door, over one mattress where a puddle of red was congealing, and into the bathroom, the door open just enough to see blood glittering on the white tile.

 

“Sam?” Dean cried out as his feet followed the trail of blood on their own violation, his mind spinning and whirling, not knowing what he would find, not knowing what he would see when he made it to the bathroom. His heart was pounding in his chest and his mouth tasted like iron and he smelled the blood all around him, and he didn’t even think about it as he slammed open the bathroom door, pushing it so hard that it made a dent in the plaster walls behind it.

 

Sam was lying sprawled out; half of his lanky form tucked away behind the toilet in the most cramped position Dean had ever seen a person in. One of his wrists was laying out, flat, against the tile floor, several cuts crisscrossing and marring the skin. Part of Dean, the hunter and the warrior and the impassionate bastard that he had been raised to become, knew that the wounds weren’t life-threatening, that they had bled a lot, sure, but that no arterial damage had been done, but the rest of him was skidding to the floor, slipping on slick blood and making a mess, getting stains on his jeans, trying to pull Sam’s pale form out from behind the toilet and so that he was laying flat on the floor, laying in puddles of his own blood as it seeped into his hair, clothes, and skin.

 

“Sam?” Dean asked, his voice high-pitched and panicked as he shook his brother, willing him to wake up, to snap out of it. “Sam? _SAM?_ ”

 

“D-de…” It wasn’t much; just the parting of lips and a sound that could have been his name or could have just been a breath of air, but it was enough for Dean, enough to signal that Sam was still there, that he was awake. 

 

“Sam, can you hear me?” There was no answer, but that didn’t mean anything, Dean thought. _It didn’t_. Blood loss - _oh god, blood loss_ – could do things to people, could make them euphoric or dull their senses … it was okay. It wasn’t like he was going to die … Sam wasn’t going to die. He _wasn’t_. “Okay, Sam, I’m going to bandage your arm.” Dean chanced a glance at the wound again, noticing that it was still bleeding but that it was sluggish now, slowing down. He wouldn’t bleed out. He wouldn’t need a hospital, either, because if Dean took Sam to a hospital, then they would think that … would think that he was _hurting_ himself or something, and that wasn’t true, Sam _wouldn’t_ do that … Dean had been scared, earlier, that he might, which was why he wouldn’t leave, but Sam was getting better, Dean had been making him better so that meant that _something_ had come for Sam and had attacked him and now Dean was going to fix it right again.

 

And that’s what Dean did; he bandaged Sam’s arm, checking the other for similar wounds (there weren’t, and that was just _proof_ that Sam couldn’t have done it himself, wasn’t it?), before getting his blood-stained clothes off of him and putting him in the clean bed, tucking him in and placing a kiss on his forehead just like he always remembered his mother doing when they were kids. Sam slept fitfully the whole night, and in between scrubbing the blood from the floor and putting the bed sheets in a pile to be burned (yet another charge to Dr. Gurtrude), Dean would go to his side, brushing back sweaty bangs and feeling for fever, making sure that he got his sleep, because Sam needed his rest.

 

That had been one month ago, back in Indiana, and Dean still couldn’t get the taste and smell of Sam’s blood out. Sammy had slept for two whole days, off and on, afterwards, and it was the longest two days of Dean’s life. He had refused to leave Sam’s side, too terrified that whatever had hurt his brother would come back if he left again, and even though they ran out of food and he was thirsty as hell, he didn’t move until Sam’s eyes finally blinked open and confused, and he looked around the room like he had never seen it before.

 

_“Dean?”_

 

Dean hadn’t left Sam’s side since then, and they had only talked about it once; they had been in the car, speeding away from Indiana like it was the center of hell itself, and Dean felt some of the last vestiges of the person he had been _before_ , before the walking open wound that was his brother had come back into his life and twisted and turned it into something that he couldn’t even recognize or _change_ anymore, and he pulled the car over, started screaming and cussing and, _hell_ , crying, wanting to know why, _why, WHY?_

 

Sam didn’t say anything right away, staring out of the window and chewing on his bottom lip until it bled, and the sight of Sam’s blood was almost enough to trigger a wave of nausea that Dean was just _barely_ able to bite back down.

 

“I don’t know,” Sam finally answered, but _fuck that_ , that wasn’t good enough, not nearly good enough when he thought about how much it had hurt him when he saw the blood, how much it had scared him to think about Sam being … being _dead_ in there, in the bathroom, because Dean can’t lose Sam … he already lost him once, when he left him for school to go and be _normal_ , and he just couldn’t lose him like that again. And not permanently … if Sam died Dean wouldn’t make it. _He wouldn’t_.

 

“I can’t really remember,” Sam continued, his breathing stuttered and his words sticky and choppy, like he was having a hard time getting them out, and Dean couldn’t stop himself from reaching over and pulling his brother to his chest, rocking him and pressing kisses to the top of his head when the shudders got strong, almost strong enough to tear Sam’s fragile body to _shreds_. “I remember you leaving, and I remember watching the clock, every minute going by, wondering when you would get home. I was counting the seconds, I think,” Sam said, his voice higher, like he was crazy, like they were both _fucking insane_ , “-like it was a game or something. To see if I got it right, exactly sixty seconds. And then,” and Sam paused, shaking more violently for a few moments, and Dean tried holding on tighter to see if it would help any. It did, for a little bit, and Sam calmed down enough to talk some more. “And then, it gets kind of fuzzy. I know that I got out of bed, and I know that I was scared, because there was a loud noise down the hall, and you weren’t there and I was scared so I grabbed a knife.”

 

Sam’s voice got faster and faster, and Dean noticed that he wasn’t really _breathing_ anymore, just getting more and more riled up, and he tried to calm him down, tried to shush him so that he could breath again, because breathing was important, he knew that. Dean might not have known a whole lot then, but he knew that oxygen was important. “We don’t have to do this,” he said, although every cell in his body, every bit and part of him _needed_ them to do this, _needed_ to know what had happened with Sam so that he _knew_ how to protect him and to keep it from happening again.

 

Sam just shook his head and took several deep, gulping breaths, his voice scared but determined, and said, “And then I had the knife in my hand … and I was waiting for the noise to come, to come and get me and I was on the bed again, looking up just like I did when I saw _her_ ,” and there was an emphasis on _her_ , and Dean could pick it up, could sense the importance of the word and couldn’t stop himself from being jealous of a dead girl; he wondered if Sam thought of Dean as _him_. “-and then I thought that maybe it was me, or that maybe it was the demon after you, that it would take you and burn you because you love me, you take care of me, and so I thought that if I could stop it then it would be okay, but then I cut and it hurt and I knew that it would hurt you too much but then there was blood … I ran to the door but I knew that I couldn’t leave, so I ran to the bathroom because I knew that you would find me, and you did, Dean.” Sam’s eyes, so pretty, shining and glittering with tears, turned up to meet his from his chest. “And you _did_ , Dean.”

 

Dean didn’t say anything, scared to death about what Sam had just told him, that Sam had _hurt himself_ because he was scared for Dean, and Dean just wanted to shake him to make him understand that he could _never_ do it again because losing Sam would kill Dean, didn’t he know that ( _apparently he did_ , his traitorous mind whispered, _because he only cut the one wrist_ … but his mind was wrong, because once was too much, it could never happen again) and Dean needed to protect him, needed to protect Sam from everything and everyone, even from _himself._

 

Dean knew sometimes, when he was holding Sam late at night, curled up in a hotel bed or in the Impala, or, more recently, inside the abandoned mansion of the ghost-collector from Nebraska, that maybe Sam needed more than what Dean could give. Because sometimes when he looked at Sam it was like the tint faded away and he could see what his brother was becoming; scared to let Dean leave the room, only eating when Dean was around and sleeping only when Dean was curled against him, only leaving to vomit quietly or to press himself up against a window when the visions came quick and hard and painful. His eyes were like black holes rounded with gray in a pale white face, and sometimes he looked more like a skeleton than a human being.

 

But then the shades came back on, and suddenly pallor was mistaken for an angelic glow and bones replaced with definition and lines. The light from dead eyes was twinkling like the sun when Dean looked into his brother’s face, and Dean thought sometimes that Sam wasn’t doing very good, but as long as he was _getting better_ it would all be okay. Because Dean was going to take care of Sammy … that was the plan.

 

 

**_…l.l.i.h…d.e.t.n.u.a.h…n.o…e.s.u.o.h…_ **

 

 

Dean sometimes wondered if some of the people that they saved on a regular basis were worth saving. Honestly, there was a difference between accidentally purchasing a haunted house and _purposefully_ entering a haunted asylum for a contest that went wildly out of control.

 

But whatever. Dean cocked his shotgun, loaded to the brim with rocksalt, as he led the group of scared kids and a couple of adults (who should have known better, _damn it_ ) through twisting hallways and dangerous rooms, hopefully leading them towards the door. Sam was hanging in the back, not really saying anything or looking at the others in the group, his own shotgun sort of dragging on the ground … Dean would have normally yelled at him, told him to take better care of the equipment, but the thing was that Sam was being so damned quiet that it was the only way Dean could tell if his brother was even there anymore, so he just let it slip. 

 

It would be better as soon as they were out of the place and back in their hotel, so he could hold Sam until the shaking stopped and the tears subsided. Sam _hated_ hunting, even more now than ever, and whenever other people were stuck with them he just got in this weird, freaked-out headspace like they were more evil than whatever it was they were hunting.

 

And yeah, Dean knew that he should have been worried about Sam’s sudden agoraphobia a long time ago, that he should have stopped and let Sam get checked out by some psychiatrist or counselor or something, but the thing was, he sorta _liked_ having Sam so dependent on him. And he didn’t know just how _evil_ that made him, forcing Sam to live through constantly nightmares, terrorized whenever Dean was out of his line of vision for more than a minute, but if it kept his brother from leaving him again, Dean would do it.

 

Someday, he figured, Sam would thank him for it.

 

 

**_…k.e.e.s…d.n.a…e.d.i.h…_ **

 

 

Dean _knew_ when Sam started to break (watching Jessica _burn_ on the ceiling and not being able to save her, only being able to tear Sam away, pulling his heart from his chest with a heaving, sucking noise) but he couldn’t quite figure out just when Sam started to _shatter_.

 

His younger brother started to lose days, here and there; Dean wouldn’t notice it at the time, couldn’t detect the small shifts in mood and posture until Sam would suddenly jolt in his chair, in the bed, _under him_ , and his eyes would go wide and glassy and he would ask what was going on.

 

As time went on, when one occurrence became two then three then regular, something he could almost set his watch by or something that was just expected. And Dean never mentioned it, because he didn’t know what he could possibly say that would make Sam feel any better; yeah, he had some ideas, had looked into possible possessions or some other supernatural occurrence that could have been influencing his brother, but as time continued to sludge by it began to become more and more apparent that it wasn’t something _doing_ it to Sam as much as it seemed that it was something that Sam was doing to _himself_. 

 

They celebrated Sam’s birthday in silence, no cake, no presents, nothing, because it had never really been their focus when they were kids. Yeah, he was a year older. Yeah, it was another year that had gone by without him dying. Dean sure as hell didn’t feel like celebrating, and he _sure as fuckin’ hell_ didn’t want to think about the whispering voice in his mind that told him that this was the last birthday that his brother would ever see.

 

Dean let himself be blinded by the continuing degradation of Sam’s mental and physical state. His brother was barely more than bones and skin by October, unable to run long distances or lift more than a few pounds. His hair was limp and his eyes were sunken in, surrounded by dark splotches and sharp cheekbones. His nicotine-stained hands shook so much that his handwriting became illegible, and he was barely able to even _type_ on his computer anymore.

 

And his episodes, those days that he would lose, they were changing as well. Dean didn’t want to say that Sam had developed a split personality or anything, because, _shit_ , it wasn’t like his brother was a schizo or psycho or anything, _he wasn’t_ , he was just going through some hard times and it didn’t really matter, because Dean was helping him. Dean was making him better, holding him and fucking him and giving him a reason to live. And even if Sammy didn’t say anything, didn’t thank him, Dean could tell that he was helping; he could _see_ it in the terror in his brother’s shining eyes every time he lost sight of Dean.

 

Dean knew by then when Sam was _elsewhere_ ; as October burned away into November, the other … other _side_ of his brother started to change and become a little different than Sam. It was a bit _unsettling_ , Dean would admit, having his brother stare at him for hours with dead eyes and not looking like he even _recognized_ him, but Sam wasn’t crazy. _He wasn’t_. Dean could just tell that Sam was working through something, and some part of his hurting ( _not crazy_ ) brain had just splintered and created another side, one that was silent and just stared at him, one that only spoke with hands and lips and teeth, one with dead eyes and one that never slept.

 

When Sam was … _like that_ … he was different, but when he was himself it was almost like he was getting better. He would smile again, he would eat (even if he couldn’t keep it down most of the time, he was eating again and that was _so_ relieving Dean could cry); he would kiss Dean like a lover and like a brother and everything would just _shift_ in Dean’s world until it was nothing but _Sammy Sammy Sammy_ at the center of his universe. 

 

But whenever Sam closed his eyes, whenever he laid down his head on a pillow or on Dean’s shoulder, it would be only a small number of minutes before they snapped open again, and the solemn, unnerving side of his brother would emerge while the other part of him slept. Dean learned quickly enough that drugging Sammy with sleeping pills didn’t stop the _other_ from coming out; rather, it just made _hi_ s brother weaker and kept him away for longer. But, even if Sam’s body wasn’t getting the rest that it should, his _spirit_ seemed to be finally recovering and Dean still believed that _if he just gets tired enough, eventually his body will force him to sleep, whether or not he wants it._

 

Sam couldn’t remember what he did when it wasn’t _him_ in Dean’s arms, and to be honest, Dean wasn’t sure if Sam even _knew_ that he wasn’t sleeping when he closed his eyes at night … he wasn’t going to tell him though. There was no need to worry Sammy about something that probably meant nothing at all; it was just a phase, just a part of his recovery, and Dean would take care of him. 

 

It was nothing at all.

 

 

**_…y.r.a.t.e.m.e.s…t.e.p…_ **

 

 

Dean has always noticed Sam’s eyes; he’s always seen the sparkle and glitter and glisten in them whenever Sam looks at him in fear, awe, respect, trust, _lust_ … but Dean can’t see _anything_ in Sam’s eyes anymore because they are closed. 

 

Dean’s broken into a few hospital morgues before, and this one is no different. The same lax security ( _how many guards do you think dead people need?_ Sam asked him once, and Dean remembers laughing about it and just thinking about laughing right now makes him feel sick), the same polished tiles and the same scent of death clinging to him as he makes his way through the halls, eventually finding the door that he’s looking for, endless drawers before him and now all he has to do is _find_ Sammy so they can get the hell out of here.

 

In the end … in the end, it was really all his fault, and Dean accepts that. Staying up with Sammy, watching him when he was normal and himself and then trying to watch him when he _wasn’t_ had really taken its toll on Dean, and just when he needed to be awake, when he needed to be alert and watching over the person that his brother _wasn’t_ , he wasn’t, in such a deep sleep that nothing, not even Sam getting up out of bed and walking across the room and opening the front door, could have roused him.

 

It was the screeching of tires, the blaring of a truck’s horn and the sound of screaming that finally woke Dean up, but by then it was too late. 

 

The trucker tried to talk to him, right after it happened, when the police showed up and they covered his brother in a tarp and carted _his body_ away … the trucker said things like, _he came out of nowhere and I tried to stop, but it was like he didn’t even see me_ but Dean didn’t really hear him; the wheels and cogs in his brain were already running overtime, trying to come up with ideas and plans and ways to get Sam away from those people who had taken him away from Dean.

 

He finds Sam soon enough; most of the drawers are empty and there’s only two others that he finds before his brother. Sam’s body is pale and broken, blood mostly washed away from his skin, and Dean can see the places that were the most damaged. Chest, legs … almost entirely shattered, yet still recognizable. It really doesn’t matter to Dean; Sammy’s always been beautiful to him, even before he knew that he saw his brother like that. There’s a toe tag on him, and he’s labeled as ‘Jeremiah Gurtrude’ and Dean realized only moments after giving the authorities that name that he would never be able to use his only platinum card ever again. It was a small price to pay, he thinks now, running his hands down Sam’s pale shanks, the flesh cold and unresponsive under his touch for the first time ever, but there’s always more credit cards. His brother, though; that’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

 

Dean would just like to carry Sam out of there by himself, he really would, but the problem with that is that, even after midnight, it is really hard to explain why anyone would be carrying a corpse out of the morgue. Beyond that, Dean knows that Sammy’s way too big for him to carry now without any help; calling Dad is an option, and Dean’s thought about it so many times today ( _Please, Dad, please come help … Sammy’s dead, Dad, and I don’t know what to do…_ ) but that would only complicate things, so Dean left his cell-phone back at the hotel.

 

Instead, Dean finds a gurney and quickly lays his brother on it, covering him up with a white sheet, just like in all of the movies he’s ever seen with a corpse in it. He has no idea if the white sheet is supposed to signify something (because it was always Sam’s job to know the useless trivia), but he doesn’t want to not do it and take the chance that something could happen to his little brother’s _soul_ or whatever … wasn’t there something about coins that he heard once? Was that something he needed to do?

 

Dean doesn’t have any change on him, and he doesn’t have the time to sit around and think about the different rituals for the dead in all the different cultures his father and Sam had studied; it won’t really be important for much longer, anyways.

 

It only takes him about twenty minutes to get his brother out of the morgue, and before too long they are both back in the Impala, Sam propped up in the passenger seat, his eyes wide open and lifeless, staring dully forward as Dean shifts the car into gear. Dean’s world is blurred and fogged over; he doesn’t feel the sting of tears in his eyes or the wetness on his cheeks at all, his body painfully numb. His hands are gripping at the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles have popped. His eye is twitching ever so slightly.

 

There is an assortment of papers on the dashboard of the car, and Dean doesn’t even have to look at them again to know where he’s going. He’s already memorized the path – drive ten miles down the highway, take a left on Fletcher Road, drive until you see a small field road and then turn in, you’ll see a grove of twisted cedar trees that mark the cursed land – and the sweet smell of blood and death will always be with him after this night.

 

_Dean’s been a fan of scary movies for as long as he can remember_ ; he remembers late nights in hotel rooms, remembers sticky theater seats and his sullen younger brother covered in rashes; he remembers sweet kisses and even sweeter touches that feel as though they are from the crescendo of the film, the last happy moments before the horror truly unfolds, he remembers a walking skeleton sharing his bed and a ghost stealing his soul, and he remembers giving himself away like the true damsel in distress would. 

 

There’s no sign marking the ancient burial grounds, no real way to tell that he’s even found the right place, but as Dean pulls the car into the flat area and shuts it off, not even looking over to his brother next to him, his sixth sense that has developed after many years of hunting the supernatural comes up to tell him that he’s right, that this is what he’s looking for.

 

There’s a shovel in the backseat, and as the legend goes, he’ll only have to wait two days. 

 

Dean’s seen this movie before; he knows how this story ends.

 

_Some day, he figures, Sam will thank him for this._


End file.
